


On My Skin

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Control Issues, F/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is a struggle for control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On My Skin

She finds that she is bathing more often these days.

Alayne is sure the maids are whispering about her newfound passion for soaking in the tub till her skin turns pink and wrinkled, the steam making her room almost too hot to bear. She knows they find her insistence on undressing by herself curious. But as skilled as she is quickly becoming in lies, Alayne simply does not know how to explain the bruises that dot her skin like stains on parchment, some of them bearing the unmistakable impression of teeth. Sometimes she wonders, as she drags a hand through the fragrant water, what stories her secrecy helps create. She can imagine tails of beatings and mistreatment, of scenes where her maids obliquely give her words of comfort while she hides her smiles. Perhaps she will try and discover if this is really what they assume, or even drop hints that will lead them down that path. The thought of it is amusing, and she’s sure Petyr will appreciate her cleverness. It never hurts to have people second-guess what’s really going on.

This particular day, she pulls her leg up to examine a small bruise blossoming on the inside of her thigh, the slight impression of his mouth still visible. The color is a dark red, and she expects it will deepen into a purple before he has a chance to see it again. She traces the edges of it with a slightly trembling finger, wondering how it is she can be so calm when her skin is so marred. It looked like this in King’s Landing, although Petyr is more careful to leave his marks where they can’t be seen. There, each cut and bruise was a symbol of how low she was, how much they could hurt her. Petyr doesn’t wish to hurt her, and she knows this—she enjoys the reception almost as much as he enjoys the giving, and the cuts on her lips are now caused by her teeth, or his, not a knight’s fist. The act in which they are given is different, but she still wonders if part of his enjoyment comes from the act of claiming. Of restricting her in some way, even if it is something as little as ensuring she cannot be seen undressed by anyone but him. There is a common element of control under both the present and the past acts. And even as she trembles with pleasure at the memory of receiving his bruises, she is left feeling slightly unclean.

She pulls her hand back, and fills it with a hard lump of soap.

****

He fucks her in her bed that night. Not exactly a rare location, but a change. Lately he has favored his solar, the better for them to go back to work after the release, but tonight she suspects that he needs a bit of a reprieve. His shoulders are tense under her grip, and in the weak moonlight she can see clearly that the threads of gray in his hair threaten to overtake the dark. He does not speak often of his challenges in controlling the Vale, but she’s been by his side for years. She knows him as well as anyone.

Petyr’s lips rest on her neck, but he stops himself from biting down too hard. Instead he focuses on her left breast, his mouth gentle but insistent. She arches her back till she feels she is going to scream out, and then rakes her nails across his back.

He pulls away from her, the half-lidded gaze of before changed to surprise. She meets it, her breath caught in her throat. She had never before acted in such a deliberate way; her marks had always been the marks of excitement. She can feel the wetness of blood under her fingertips. Alayne is about to say something to explain herself, her thoughts uncertain in a way that they are only around him, when he rolls his hips forward and it is all she can do to hold on.

****

In the morning, the bruise on her breast is only slightly visible. She chooses a low-cut gown, the fabric just barely covering the red mark. She watches him try not to let his eyes linger there as they break their fast, and notices that he does not lean back completely in his chair.


End file.
